Page:The New Monthly Magazine - Volume 097.djvu/447

Rh unaffected grace of style and clearness of method in working it out, that it leaves us sensibly his debtors, and in charity with him, if not (remembering the wrongs of Columbus) with all mankind.

The bent of his Spanish studies at this time found a new direction in the "History of the Conquest of Granada"—wherein he has fully availed himself, says Mr. Prescott, of all the picturesque and animating movements of the romantic era of Ferdinand and Isabella, and has been very slightly seduced from historic accuracy by the poetical aspect of his subject. "The fictitious and romantic dress of his work has enabled him to make it the medium for reflecting more vividly the floating opinions and chimerical fancies of the age, while he has illuminated me picture with the dramatic brilliancy of colouring denied to sober history." The concoction of this modern Iliad is certainly admirable. The hand of a master is seen in the delineation of character, Christian and Moorish; in the grouping of the dramatis personæ; and in the evolution, act by act, and scene after scene, of the drama itself. Especially we remember with interest the portraits of Don Juan de Vera, ever dignified and chivalric, and the gallant Ponce de Leon, Marquis of Cadiz; of the daring old warrior, El Zagal, and the ill-starred Boabdil. Tenderly the historian tells the exodus of the latter, with his devoted cavaliers, from the city of the Alhambra—how they paused on the mountain side to take a farewell gaze at their beloved Granada, which a few more steps would shut from their sight for ever, and which never before had appeared so lovely in their eyes—the sunshine, so bright in that transparent climate, lighting up each tower and minaret, and resting gloriously upon the crowning battlements of the Alhambra, while the vega (plain) spread its enamelled bosom of verdure below, glistening with the silver windings of the Xenil; how the proud exiles lingered with a silent agony of tenderness and grief in view of that delicious abode, the scene of their loves and pleasures—until a light cloud of smoke burst forth from the citadel, and a peal o£ artillery, faintly heard, told that the city was taken possession of, and the throne of the Moslem king lost for ever; and how, thereupon, the heart of Boabdil, softened by misfortunes, and overcharged with woe, could no longer contain itself, and the words of resignation, Allah achbar! died upon his lips, and tears blinded his last glance at the metropolis of his sires.

Far less satisfactory, to our thinking, is the collection of tales entitled "The Alhambra"—for we shared in the "dolorous disappointment" of an eminent reviewer, who observes that he came to it with the eager supposition that it was some real Spanish or Moorish legend connected with that romantic edifice; and behold! it was a mere Sadler's Welle travesty (before the reign of Phelps and legitimacy) applied to some slender fragments from past days. The observation applies, however, to the plan of the work, not to the execution.

But we must "hurry on"—which Mr. Irving did, à merveille, in his rapid production of volume after volume. "A Tour on the Prairies" recals him to his own country, in one of its most distinctive features, and is agreeably described, without any straining at effect, or long-bow draughtmanship. "Astoria" followed—the story of a merchant-prince's